Best Friends, Secrets, and Summertime Firsts
by joemoe93
Summary: Scott and Stiles spend their summer the best way they know. Featuring pouty lips, smoking, and makeouts in the Jeep. Best enjoyed while listening to "Kiss Me."


It's a summer of firsts.

Stiles and Scott have taken to driving the Jeep way out into the backwoods, beyond the end of the pavement, and sitting through the bright, hazy days discussing this. Sometimes they're quiet; they lean back, face the dappled sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy overhead, and listen to cicadas in the distance. Sometimes they play the radio, sing along, and pretend they know how to harmonize. Sometimes they don't head home until they've invented names for a sky full of constellations.

And sometimes—sometimes... well, it's not a summer of seconds or thirds, though those are good, too.

The first time Stiles arches his back and thrusts his hips forward, digs deep into his pocket, and fishes out a glass pipe and a little plastic bag, Scott is surprised. He's smelled it on Stiles before, even without his wolf nose, but he's never _seen_ it.

"You were asthmatic," Stiles says. "I couldn't smoke around you, much less share."

"Share?"

"You think I'm going to let you just sit there and watch?"

Scott's face twists into uncertainty. "I don't know—"

"Trust me. Now watch and learn."

And he does. He watches the way Stiles's chest swells fit to burst and his eyelashes tremble together and the wind seems to snatch his breath when he finally lets it out. He sees how Stiles's hand, though relaxed against his leg, nevertheless cradles the swirl-patterned glass with care. He sees the corner of Stiles's mouth tipping up into a grin when they make eye-contact.

"Your turn," Stiles says. His voice is ever so slightly scratchy.

It seems a strange process to Scott, and his hands feel oversized when he hands the pipe back. Nothing's changed but the taste of smoke on his tongue.

"What if werewolves can't get high?" he asks. Suddenly this seems like a serious concern. He wonders how Derek could have neglected to mention this.

"Dunno," Stiles mumbles around the lip of the pipe. He takes a long drag, pauses to contemplate. "You sure you're doing it right?"

"There's a wrong way to do it?"

"Yeah." Stiles hands the pipe over again. "You gotta—you gotta let the smoke all the way in your lungs. Pretend that shit's your inhaler and you just ran a marathon. Don't hold it in your mouth."

Scott's next attempt leaves him coughing and rubbing teary eyes, and on top of it all he can feel a blister on his thumb where the flame of the lighter licked him.

"Don't suck in so hard," Stiles advises. "You're only getting air that way, anyway."

Scott studies the pipe distrustfully. "Maybe I should just leave it to you."

"Okay."

Stiles takes the pipe and lighter. Leaning over with both arms, he holds them up to Scott's mouth.

"No, I meant—" Scott tries.

"Shut up and put your mouth on it," Stiles says. "God, this is awkward. Hold on."

He throws his legs into Scott's lap so he can lean forward instead of sideways.

"Stiles, what—"

"I said be quiet. No, still not working."

There are a few moments of frenzied wiggling, Scott blinks, and suddenly Stiles is in his lap. Straddling his lap, in fact. The wind ruffles his hair, as if to remind him he's not imagining this.

"Fuck—wait—" Stiles throws open the door of the Jeep. "There we go. Much more room."

Then a pressure Scott hadn't fully registered is lightened as Stiles puts his foot down where the door had been blocking and he shifts to a more comfortable position. And then Scott starts registering: his hands on Stiles's thighs, the smell of Stiles mixing with that of the smoke, the way Stiles's tongue rests against his lower lip in concentration.

Stiles offers the pipe with an underhand grip; his other hand holds the lighter, thumb ready and waiting. Scott presses his lips against the smooth glass.

"Ready?"

He nods.

The lighter is sparked with an expert snap. "Go."

Scott breathes in deep—not too fast—and feels the smoke coiling down his throat. Maybe it is like his inhaler; maybe there's something intangible, unknowable at stake if he can't reach it, something that will be lost between him and the best friend currently sitting in his lap. Maybe that's the feeling bubbling through his head, tingling at the tips of his fingers.

"All right?"

Scotts opens his eyes.

"Yeah, I think I'm all right," he says. He feels like smiling, so he does. "Do you have something to drink?"

Stiles presses a bottle of water into his chest. He has to take his hands off Stiles's legs to take it, which is a shame, somehow. He downs half the bottle and passes it back. He watches Stiles's throat as he gulps the rest.

"We forgot a constellation," Scott says, suddenly trying not to giggle.

Stiles tosses the bottle into the back seat. "What?"

"We forgot a constellation. When we were naming them."

"Scott, it's the middle of the afternoon."

"Mm. I know."

He reaches up, extends a finger, and grazes Stiles's face like a game of human connect-the-dots. It's probably just as well they never named the moles on his face. No name could do them justice.

"It's okay, though," Scott says. His finger lands dangerously close to Stiles's lips. He can hear two hearts thudding, but for the life of him, he can't figure out which one has started to beat faster.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Stiles asks in a stage whisper. He bites his lip but looks gleeful at the thought of divulging.

"Sure."

Stiles slouches forward, clasps his arms behind Scott's neck, and rests his cheek on Scott's shoulder. For a moment he's quiet. Then he snuggles a little closer and sighs. Despite the heat, Scott feels the shiver of goosebumps rolling out from the place where Stiles's breath hits his skin.

"Snuggling is nice." Stiles sounds almost sleepy.

"That's not a very good secret," Scott says.

"Wait, no! That's not my secret," Stiles says. "Umm. What was it like, kissing Allison?"

"It was... really nice. Really, really nice. Hey, that's not a secret either, that's a question."

"Oh. Right. My secret." Stiles pauses. The weed seems to have slowed him down from his usual manic, high-energy state. Each word comes out carefully considered, thoroughly rolled around on his tongue.

Somehow his fingers have threaded themselves into Scott's hair. "My secret is that I've never really kissed someone. You know, like, _really_ kissed them. And you shouldn't take Allison for granted."

"Maybe I shouldn't take you for granted, either," Scott says.

Stiles tilts his head back to look Scott in the eye. "You think?"

It happens like the late afternoon sun slanting into evening; one second their lips aren't touching, and the next second they are, but it's impossible to tell when, exactly, it changed. Kissing Stiles is different from kissing Allison and once he has Stiles's lip between his teeth, Scott's not sure he'll ever let go. Stiles isn't sure what he was expecting, but with the taste of smoke and a bead of sweat rolling down his back, he wouldn't have it any other way.

The hair he's buried his fingers in isn't long and red like he'd always imagined and the faint trace of stubble against his chin is new, too, but he knows he'd be a fool to call this anything but a resounding improvement over his wildest fantasies of Lydia. A fantasy can't dig its fingers into his thighs.

Finally, Scott releases his lip.

"That wasn't a very good secret, either," he says. "It didn't last very long."

Stiles laughs. "God. I should've gotten you high a long time ago."

"No one ever told me kissing your best friend could be so much fun," Scott says, and laughs at the absurdity.

"You have the advantage, though," Stiles pouts. "All that practice."

"What's summer for?" Scott asks. He smiles up at Stiles.

"Oh, man," Stiles says, putting his lips right up against that stupid, handsome, crooked smile. He closes his eyes just to bask in the feeling.

"Wait till I teach you how to shotgun."


End file.
